


Behavioral Health

by TheSerpentGamer



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mental Hospital, Self-Harm, psychiatric hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29550033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSerpentGamer/pseuds/TheSerpentGamer
Summary: Sanders Sides FicSummary: Virgil is checked in to a Behavioral Health HospitalThis is a Vent Fic about my recent experience of hospitalization. Mental hospital stuff. This paints the mental hospital as bad, and while i did have a bad experience, i encourage anyone reading that may need professional help to reach out.Here Are A Few Links about the psych hospital. I’ve been twice before and they were both good experiences, this one was horrible and I might write extra chapters of this fic to vent about it more.I wrote this in a Stephen King-esque prose as Stephen King was pretty much the only entertainment I had in there.OBVIOUSLY TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicide implications, self harm, hospitalization, depression, anxiety, OCD, autism, and an overall tone of defeatismLinks:https://href.li/?https://www.yourhealthinmind.org/treatments-medication/psychiatric-hospitals#:~:text=Most%20people%20living%20with%20mental%20illness%20will%20never,a%20stressful%20time%20for%20you%20and%20your%20family.https://href.li/?https://www.healthyplace.com/other-info/mental-illness-overview/psychiatric-hospitals-how-do-you-know-if-you-need-one
Kudos: 8





	Behavioral Health

Virgil was quiet as he was rolled through the Hospital in a wheelchair. What would he have said? Small talk didn’t seem appealing to him, especially after having almost taken his own life just three hours earlier.

He picked at his paper scrubs as he watched the tiled patterns on the wall pass by and merge in the dull of mosaic of simplicity. Red, then white, then red, then white, the black, then white. It was a dull thrum in the hurricane of a night he had experienced.

Red. White. Red. White. Black. White.

He turned over his arm to look at the gashes across his wrists, now sterilized and treated professionally. He awaited a comment from the person behind him, pushing the wheelchair. He awaited a berating belittling comment that he knew would never come.

Of course they wouldn’t say it. They were paid to be nice to him.

The wheelchair swerved around a corner and Virgil spotted the bold, black letters overhead a pair of enormous metal doors.

“Behavioral Health Unit.”

The nurse behind him let his chair for a moment to scan their badge across a panel on the wall. The familiar ‘click’ of a lock shifting sounded out as the doors slowly opened, metal grating silently against the smooth tile.

Virgil felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as his eye caught glimpses of the people inside. Most patients seemed as any other person, dressed in casual clothes, as if they were just getting ready to head out the door to go to lunch.

There were a few at the edge of each glance that mirrored Virgil’s own fears of who he would become upon entering: people wandering aimlessly, eyes lifeless and confused as their feet shifted awkwardly, almost alienlike in stature. Their expressions were blank and lost, like everything behind them had vanished long ago.

Virgil’s chair was in motion again as the nurse retook their place behind him and gently guided the newest patient into their new home for an indefinite amount of time.

He could feel his stomach knotting up as those eyes turned to him, welcoming the newest member to this family, a family he wasn’t sure he wanted to join.

“Virgil Storm.” The nurse behind him announced to various professionals in scrubs of different hues.

A new nurse in green scrubs approached him. Her badge was backwards, obscuring her name from Virgil’s view.

The new nurse, now called Green in Virgil’s head, smiled at him. “Hi, Virgil. Could you tell me a little bit about what brought you in today?”

There was that question again, already asked at least a dozen times.

The answer was the same. It was an answer that was just words on a paper for them, a way to categorize and evaluate him. To him, that answer was a horrible reminder of his reality. It was an answer of a bitter taste, deep in the back of his throat. That’s where he’d like to keep it.

They were words on paper to them, so why couldn’t they just share the information with each other? No. They had to make him say it.

“Cutting.” His wounds felt stronger at their mention. “Didn’t wanna live anymore.”

Green nodded with sympathy that felt way too exaggerated. “What did you use?”

Why did they torture him like this? Why make him admit it? Why?

“Razors.”

She nodded and looked down at her clipboard. “Suicide attempt by cutting with a razor blade.” She narrated as she wrote.

The nauseous coils in his gut had turned to shame. It was a painful cramp that made him want to hide and never come out.

His throat began to tighten and eyes sting, but he willed it away. He just got here, he didn’t want to roll over and submit to these strangers, professionals or not, especially this soon. Maybe give it a few days to wear him down, but not immediately.

“Could you tell me if you’ve been diagnosed with anything?”

Virgil opened his mouth, begging his voice not to quiver and failing as he spoke. “Anxiety. OCD. Autism”

Green’s face softened, eyes whispering ‘Open up, you can cry. Cry for me’.

Virgil hardened his gaze with an obvious ‘Not happening’.

Green frowned just the slightest bit before mercifully moving on.

Words on paper. That’s all they were. Words repeated a hundred times to a hundred doctors.

The shame coiled tighter in his gut the longer it went on.

What happened? Where were you? Do your parents know about this? What’s your living situation? How long has this been going on? How long have you felt this way? Why did you feel the need to cut?

Each answer Virgil gave was as short as he could make it, clearly dissatisfying to Green, not that Virgil really cared.

“Well, Virgil, that’s all for paperwork. Nurse Mary will get you skin checked and the tech will go through your bags. We’ll give you your things once those are done.”

Virgil couldn’t even process the implications of that until the new nurse, Mary, motioned him into another room.

Go through his bags. Of course.

Virgil did indeed bring a bag with him: a small laptop bag with clothes, books, and some comfort items and fidget toys.

They had to search it, figure out what they would allow him to have, as if he were a child or criminal with no freedoms or abilities to decide things for their own.

Mary closed the door behind Virgil as he entered the private room.

“Alright mister Storm, if I could have you take off your scrubs for me, I’m just going to check you out for any scars, marks, or injuries.”

Virgil grit his teeth and slid off his top as told. He averted his gaze as the nurse scanned his upper body as if scrutinizing every little detail and mentally noting each imperfection.

Suddenly the coil in Virgil’s gut was spreading to that bit of extra fat along his waist he could never mange to ditch, making him want nothing more than to disappear.

“Alright, and the rest?”

Virgil winced. He thought he’d have to get fully undressed but had deeply hoped he was wrong. His cheeks flushing, he slid down his pants and underwear. Virgil screwed his eyes shut to pretend he was anywhere else, but he could still feel Mary’s eyes glossing over him.

After what felt like an eternity, Mary handed him a bag with his clothes from the ER. “Alright, you can just put those on and we’ll have your room ready shortly. It’s pretty late, so other patients are already getting ready for bed. If you have any questions, Rhodel can help you.’

Virgil offered a grunt that vaguely resembled an affirmative tone as Mary allowed him to redress himself.

Mary lifted a page from her clipboard and smiled a smile that was a tad too chipper. “Looks like you get a room to yourself, 1047A.”

That was the first piece of good news Virgil had heard that night. It was such good news that he almost smiled.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol and cheap linens filled Virgil’s nose as he collapsed into his new bed. The firm mattress groaned in protest and his pillow immediately flattened.

Virgil estimated it to be around 11pm when he finally answered every last question and signed every last document.

A nurse had come in with three of the five pairs of clothes he had packed and nothing else. At this point, Virgil was too tired to care. He wanted it to be over, even though it had only just begun.


End file.
